Double Dare
by DebbieB
Summary: Tracy and Luke indulge in a little game of sexual tableturning. Mostly humorous, with some moments of depth hopefully.


_Written for the "Tracy Gets Even" Challenge at The Tracy Quartermaine Ficathon on LiveJournal. Plot bunny and Luke's new nickname courtesy of ElementalFey's "Inner Tracy."_

She was doing it to drive him crazy. Luke Spencer looked across the table through his morning hangover, the beginnings of a huge headache forming at the base of his skull. His wife, wretched morning person that she was, looked bright and chipper as she poured a glass of juice for their newest housemate, Robert Scorpio. Her make-up was perfect, hair newly styled, clothes bright and summery as she reached over to hand the Wonder from Down Under a basket of pastries.

He took the last croissant, the smug little bastard.

Alan and Monica were there as well, digging into the breakfast with as much disdain for Robert Scorpio as they usually reserved for him. Not that Luke could depend on any help from that corner—Alan loathed him, and Monica just wanted some peace in _her house_. Both were perfectly vocal about their hopes that Edward's plan would work—that Robert would drive Luke away, and both of them would be gone from the Qmansion.

Not that Luke had any intention of falling for such an obvious scheme. He could out-stubborn Robert Scorpio any day, any time. Edward was gonna have to try harder if he wanted to get rid of Mama Spencer's blue-eyed boy.

Luke blinked those blue eyes hard, fighting a wave of nausea as Alice showed up with a steaming plate of eggs, bacon and toast. He knew he had to eat, but the thought of putting any kind food on his roiling stomach was horrible to him. "Thanks, Sunshine," he croaked weakly as he reached out to take the plate from the tall, powerfully-built housekeeper.

Alice frowned as she pulled the plate just out of his reach. "Sorry, Mr. Luke, but this plate is for Mr. Robert." She put the plate just under his nose, pointing out the details as she continued. "He likes the edges of his bacon really crispy, and his scrambled eggs just a little runny—see?"

Luke turned his head away—the eggs looked hideous to him, and he flapped his hand wildly for Alice to remove it from his sight.

"Aw, Spencer," Scorpio pronounced it "SPEENsuh," a minute detail that grated on his spine each and every time he heard it. "It'll put hair on your chest."

"I'll take a smooth chest and a stable stomach, thank you. Can I at least get some coffee, Alice?"

"All we have is decaf, Mr. Luke." She turned to Robert, who took a deep sip of his coffee that seemed pointedly deliberate to Luke. "I can make another pot, if you want?"

"I hear MickyD's serves breakfast, Luke," Monica said softly as she poured herself a cup of decaf. "Why don't you go there?"

"Why doesn't _he_ go there?" Luke knew he was playing right into their scheme, but really—if a man can't get a decent cup of coffee and fully-cooked eggs in his own home…okay, his _wife's_ home…well, his wife's sister-in-law's home—well, what was this world coming to?

Speaking of said wife, Tracy was smiling pleasantly, ignoring him completely as she nibbled the edges of her muffin and watched Robert dig into his breakfast with gusto.

"What about you, Wife? Are you going just sit there and let them starve your husband? I could go into a diabetic coma…"

"You're not diabetic." She tossed him a packet of sweetener from the container next to the coffee decanter. "But here."

"Unkind, Wife," he grumbled, toying with the packet that lay just in front of his place setting. "I know what you're doing, and it's not going to work."

Tracy sighed, shaking her head slightly as she gestured with a single hand. "Robert Scorpio is a _guest_ in our home, Lucas. It would be rude not to give him special treatment." She reached to her right to grab the pastry basket right out of Luke's reach, just as he was going for a muffin, and hand it to Robert. "Muffin, Robbie?"

"Robbie? You're calling him Robbie?"

Tracy rolled her eyes, a huge grin brightening her face. "Oh, Luke, don't be so touchy. We're not treating Robert any differently than we treated you when you first came here." She turned to Robert. "Butter?"

"No, thank you, Sparky Buns."

Luke felt his stomach clench as Tracy chuckled, blushing slightly. It was _so_ obvious what she was doing. Robert may have his own agenda, but Tracy was as transparent as glass. She was trying to make him jealous. She was paying him back for Skye and Holly and every pretty face he'd ever so much as smiled at since marrying her, and by the great sky gods she was _not_ going to get away with it. "You didn't treat me anything like this," he snarled, half-standing to take the muffin right out of Robert's hand and popping it into his mouth quickly before the Australian could react. "You kicked my feet off of furniture, wouldn't let me touch anything, took food out of my hands—you were downright awful, if you want to know the truth, _SPANKY_ Buns." This last was pointed directly at Robert, who just shrugged and took another sip of his fully-caffeinated coffee. Luke distinctly heard a little slurp and an almost inaudible "mmmmm…."

His wife just sat there, her aging but still classic features the picture of innocence. "Why, Luke, I can't imagine _why_ I would have done such a thing…wait, let me think about this…" She put her finger to her chin, making a big show of pondering the question. Then she perked right up, as if a light bulb had turned on above her head. "Oh, I remember! You framed me for grand larceny, almost got me killed when the lunatic whose money you stole came looking for it, tricked me into a marriage I didn't want, and then refused to divorce me unless I gave you a fortune in alimony." She frowned in an almost comical way, her eyes wide and Bambi-like. "Gosh, I guess I wasn't feeling very hospitable at the time."

"You're lucky she didn't castrate you in your sleep," Alan murmured over his low-fat cereal.

"You're lucky we didn't help," Monica added, handing her husband a bowl of fruit.

Luke stared at the three Quartermaines. They had obviously lost their minds. "You think Scorpio is better? You think _he's_ a paragon of virtue? A man who faked his own death, made his own wife and daughter think he was dead for over, what, fifteen years?"

"Maybe you should try that," Monica suggested.

"We would manage," Alan agreed. "Somehow."

"Oh, be nice," Tracy purred. She leaned a little closer to Robert, who was still eating his breakfast with gusto. "He can't help being jealous. After all, Robert is handsome, worldly, sexy, daring…a real hero." She flashed Robert a sexy smile, and he lifted his glass in toast. "With all that to stand next to, of course, Lukey's bound to develop some sort of inferiority complex."

"I _don't_ have an inferiority complex," Luke snapped, grabbing the fruit basket from Monica and pulling out the first thing he could find. Which, unfortunately, was a rather undersized banana. He put the damned thing back in the basket, but not before he heard a distinct snicker from Monica's direction. "I know what you're playing at, Wife, and it's not going to fly. You got that?" He grabbed an apple and bit into it loudly. "Not…gonna..fly!"

"What _is_ he talking about?" Tracy asked Robert, who had put down his glass and was stretching slightly.

"Never a clue, Trace," the object of her obvious desire responded. Luke noticed he had placed his hand on Tracy's knee, which was bare. It occurred to him suddenly that his wife had taken to wearing skirts since Scorpio had moved in. Form-fitting, flattering, sexy skirts, he added to himself as he felt his blood pressure rising.

For him, it was loose-fitting slacks and ten miles of floating jackets.

For Scorpio, it was corporate sexy and fuck-me pumps.

"Tracy, we need to talk," he choked out over his apple. "We need to talk right now." He didn't know what he was doing, but he reached for her arm and physically pulled her away from the table.

"Hey, watch it!" she complained as she stumbled out of her seat. "What is wrong with you?"

"You know what?" He could hear his own voice, fevered and maybe a little idiotic, but clear and undeniable and rambling on of its own volition. "You reminded me. I've strayed from my purpose. I've let my eye off the prize, and I need to get back in the game. I want a divorce."

Monica and Alan let out sarcastic laughs, but said nothing.

"I'm serious, Tracy. I want my divorce and I want my fifteen million in alimony."

"Is this routine getting as tired as it sounds?" Robert asked Alan, who nodded.

"On what grounds?" Tracy's voice was incredulous.

"Abandonment." This brought about a round of laughter from everyone in the room, including Alice. Luke stared at her with an _et tu, Brutus_ look, but quickly turned back to his wife. "You have not fulfilled your wifely duties since the honeymoon."

"Oh, I _do not believe this_!" For the first time that morning, Tracy's façade dropped, and she actually glared at him. "You are joking, right?"

"Not a chance, Lawfully-dreaded Wife. You and me? In the sack? Nada, nothing, caput! And _that_, Spanky, is grounds for divorce."

"So, which one's the pot and which one's the kettle again?" Monica asked.

"_This_ from a man who had to send a proxy to his bed not once, _but twice_!" Tracy's voice was rising now, no hint of the cool woman who'd just been brunching in the Quartermaine home. Her eyes were tight, anger pulling at every muscle in her face as she struggled not to scream at the top of her voice. "_This_ from a man with eyes for every pair of tits and legs in the tri-state area _except_ his wife's…."

"Fool," Robert murmured, _sotto voce_.

"You stay out of this," Luke warned. He knew he was going over the edge, and he wasn't quite sure why. But suddenly, he was furious, he was outraged, and he was not going to stand there and let his wife be mauled by another man. "_You_," this was directed at Tracy. "_You_ have turned away every legitimate offer of sex I've given you."

"Oh, puh-lease!" She started to turn away from him, but he grabbed her arm, bring her back to face him.

"I asked you to run away with me. Remember, the day you threw Dillon and Georgie out of the house." He felt his blood pressure rising, knew he was crossing some line, and just pressed on. "We kissed, right there in that living room, and it was hot. It was scorching, and it terrified you. You were so scared of even the slightest hint of real passion that you ran away from it."

"You flatter yourself, Spencer," she said, her voice low and threatening.

"I don't remember that," Alan said.

Monica shrugged. "I heard about it from Georgie. I'll tell you later."

"You play at passion, Wife, making demands that no man with any pride or backbone would agree to. You do it because you're scared, of me, of yourself, of the heat we have. So you create this atmosphere where you can flirt all you want, and then run away when it gets too hot." She was glaring at him now, and Luke knew that on some level, he was hitting a nerve. This wasn't how he had planned it, wasn't what he'd intended at all, but his mouth kept going without him, saying things he hadn't even known he was feeling until then. "You are the one who wants to eat her cake and have it, too. You want to feel good, you want to be seduced, but you don't want any of the risks. You don't want any of the commitment."

"HA! Oh, this is rich. This is priceless." She turned to the other occupants of the room, who sat at the table (Alice had taken Tracy's abandoned chair and was watching with unabashed interest). "Can you _believe_ this man's hypocrisy?"

Alan and Monica made a point of looking the other way, and Alice and Robert just shrugged.

"You…you…" Tracy blew out a hard breath, and turned back to Luke. "So. This is how you're going to play it. You're going to coerce me into having sex with you, just so I don't lose fifteen million?"

"Funny how it's only coercion when the man's doing it," Luke observed.

"Funny how you had to rent one man and drug another man just to fill your tiny little shoes in bed," Tracy spat back.

"Deal's on, Wife," Luke said, his voice hard and unrelenting. "You. Me. Tonight. Your bedroom. Either we have sheet-soaking, mattress-pounding, mind-blowing sex tonight, or it's divorce court." He drew in a long breath, surprised by his own fervor. "Ball's in your court, Sweetheart."

Tracy stared at him for a long time, her eyes flashing, waves of fury coming off her like steam. Then she did something that chilled Luke Spencer to the bone.

She smiled.

"What do you say, Wife?" he asked, this time with a little less confidence.

Tracy's face had melted into an almost Stepford-like sweetness, her eyes lowered, a tiny pout on her lips. She took a step closer to him, and Luke had to fight himself not to take a step back. She ran her index finger lightly over his stomach, sending chills of fear-laced arousal through him. "So that's what you want, is it?" Her voice was like melted chocolate, and she took another step closer.

"Sheet-soaking…" Her finger looped through the gap in his shirt where the button was, and she tugged at the fabric to pull him closer.

"Mattress-pounding…." Her face inched closer to his, her breath tickling his chin as she gazed deeply, fearlessly into his eyes.

"Mind….blowing…." Her lips were barely brushing his, and he could feel his resolve shaking.

"Sex," she whispered, before pressing her lips to his in what had to be the most searing kiss he'd ever experienced. When they finally broke the kiss, Luke wasn't sure who was playing whom anymore, much less who was winning.

"And if you don't deliver…" It was Tracy who was smiling as she leveled a challenging gaze at him, full of lust and authority and down-right carnivorous amusement. "I'm the one who'll be suing for divorce. Lover," she added in a low, sultry tone. Then she lowered her hands to squeeze his privates, just for a brief second, before turning to sweep out the room. Before she walked out the door, she paused, shooting him another hard, dangerous smile. "Deal's on."

Alan, who had been watching the entire scene with a pained expression, now looked down at his cereal bowl before pushing it away in disgust. "I may never eat breakfast again," he muttered.

But the stage was set, and Luke realized that he may have just let his mouth write a check his body might not be able to cover.

Later, in her bedroom, Tracy took in a deep breath, fingering the almost sheer black negligee she held in her hand. Her eyes closed briefly as she stared at her own reflection in the mirror. There was always time to catch a flight, to Paris, to Rome, to anywhere but this bedroom.

He just _had_ to do it in front of her family. He just had to push her in front of her brother, in front of Monica.

She didn't like it, didn't like playing his stupid games.

But fair play was fair play, and if he was going to turn the tables on her, it seemed only fair that she returned the favor.

With another deep breath and the knowledge that he'd be there in just under an hour, Tracy Quartermaine Spencer unbuttoned her blouse and began the preparations for her night of…connubial bliss.

Luke stood outside Tracy's bedroom door, pacing like a fool. He knew he'd regret this dare as soon as he'd issued it, but now it was too late to get out of it. And trying to find a proxy a _third_ time would have been too much, especially since he'd been the one to make the demand in the first place.

He brushed a single hand through his spiky hair, glad for the first time that Lulu had decided to spend a couple of nights with her grandmother. This wasn't something he wanted his teenaged daughter exposed to, he realized in a fit of unnatural parental concern.

The door loomed in front of him, accusing and imposing in its…woodenness. He half wanted to make a bolt for it, climb out a window, steal another Bentley, head out for parts unknown. Anything but this.

But he'd painted himself into a corner. He'd let her goad him into this, with her flirting and sexy shoes and muffin-offering behavior. He'd let himself get caught up in her little game of tease and twist, and now he was going to have to pay the price.

He was going to have to sleep with her.

And the worst thing about it all was, before he'd married her, Luke Spencer wouldn't have thought twice about sleeping with Tracy Quartermaine. All things said, she'd have been quite the notch in his belt buckle. Sexy, saucy, stuck-up debutante, all ice and attitude—Tracy would have been one of his prize conquests, something for the record books.

But it was different now. She wasn't this ice-bitch countess, waiting to be plundered and seduced and left panting for more. She was his wife, his nemesis, his counterbalance and his touchstone. Over a year of marital bliss had taught him to gauge his successes by her responses, and now…now it would be different.

Now, she would win. And instead of plundering and seducing and all-round bodice-ripping, sex with Tracy would be forever a sign of his failure. That he was weaker. That she was the stronger one, the tougher one, the better schemer…

"Dear god, Spencer," he whispered to himself. "Dear god, you stupid son of a bitch... Are you actually standing here dreading sleeping with a woman who would have been number one on your score card just two years ago?" He shook his head as the reality of the situation dawned on him. He was about to score with Tracy Quartermaine. And not just some drunken roll in the sheets they'd both regret in the morning, but real, bona fide, remember it in the morning sex.

He began to laugh. "You are a complete idiot." He smoothed his hands over his hair, straightened his shirt, and knocked on the door. "Ready for a night of amore, ma petit cherub?" He opened the door and walked into her bedroom.

The sight of it almost took his breath away. Every flat surface, every table and dresser and shelf, was lined with white pillar candles flickering madly and sending reflected yellow light throughout the room. Her king-sized bed was covered in rose petals, the luxurious comforter pulled backwards to reveal satin sheets the color of moonlight. In the candle light, he could see the ice bucket with the champagne, the two glasses carefully placed on the night stand behind it. He could hear the music, soft jazz saxophone that sounded like it came from some smoky 1930s Greenwich Village nightclub. There was a scent of roses in the air, light enough to just tickle his senses, but not overpowering in anyway.

Seduction a la Tracy Quartermaine, he thought to himself.

"Spanky," he whispered, because anything louder would have seemed out of place. "Buttercup?" She wasn't in the room, so he supposed she had to be in the bathroom. Luke stepped further into the room, noticing for the first time the box of condoms on the nightstand. "Thinks ahead. Smart girl," he muttered. "Oh, Peaseblossom, where are you hiding?"

"Can't a girl make an entrance?"

He turned to follow the sound of her voice, and nearly choked when he saw her standing in the doorway to her bathroom. The light was behind her, emphasizing the sheer negligee she wore. It was a long black thing, low cut and flowing, cut to emphasize her curvaceous figure. The plunging neckline flattered her ample cleavage, which sparkled with the diamond drop necklace she wore. Her left arm was above her head, leaning casually against the door jamb as she posed for him. Her hair, just long enough now, was worn up, softly twisted into a French knot, with loose strands playing against her cheeks. She stepped forward, and her leg peeked out from the long slit up the side of her gown, a tantalizing promise of things to come. "You're late," she purred as she crossed the room to kiss him. She smelled of summer roses, and Luke had to stop himself from ravishing her right there on the bedroom floor.

Tracy had obviously gone to a lot of trouble for this, to show him she was in charge, that she was the one making the rules. Luke had no doubt in his mind that he was going to bed this woman, tonight, in this very room. But he still had the chance to save his masculinity, to make her the one asking for it, to get her so hot and bothered that she forgot their little power play. There was still a chance to have _his_ cake and eat it too.

"Penny for your thoughts," she purred.

"I was thinking about eating cake," he whispered, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her into another kiss. This time, though, he controlled the pressure, the depth, the heat of it. And when he pulled back to break the kiss, he was gratified to see a slightly dazed expression on his wife's beautiful face. "And having it, too."

He kissed her again, stroking his hand up her back until his fingers were in her hair. Her skin smelled incredible, soft and smooth against his cheek. He tugged at the pins holding her hair in place, pulling them out one by one until her chocolate colored locks fell in chaotic waves around her face. "I like your hair down, Wife," he whispered against her lips.

"I like it up," she countered, nibbling his lower lip. She pushed away from him, smoothing her hands behind her neck as she sauntered backwards, slowly lifting her hair up off her shoulders as she posed for him again. "It's more dignified."

He grinned at her, stepping closer, noticing that her movements had inched them closer to her bed. "I like it down. It's wilder." He reached for her wrists, pulling them gently to him, placing her hands flat on his chest as he stepped closer, guiding them to the edge of the bed. "And you know I want my wife to be wild…" He kissed her again, this time pressing his tongue against the opening of her mouth. She resisted momentarily, then relaxed, allowing him access, letting him deepen the kiss between them. His hands moved of their own volition, gripping the soft fabric of her negligee tightly, tugging gently, moaning low in his throat as the heat of her skin threatened to make him forget that he was supposed to make her beg, not the other way around.

"Champagne, lover?" She reached behind her, pulling the bottle out of the ice bucket with a small flourish. "I raided the cellar this afternoon. Daddy's personal stock. Krug's Clos du Mesnil. The grapes come from a single vineyard, Chardonnay grapes only." She gave him a knowing look and smiled. "$350 a bottle, if it's just a regular year. You're gonna have to prove yourself…" She turned towards the bed, as if to explain. "If you want a bottle from a _good_ year…"

"Hey, if it tickles my nose, I'm happy." He took the bottle from her to let her get the glasses, then pulled the cork with a loud pop. It bubbled over the edge, and they both laughed as they struggled to catch the overflow in the glasses. She handed him the one in her left hand, and they toasted each other with lustful hearts.

Luke barely had time to stop the tickle in his nose before the room went dark.

He felt like hell. Luke rolled over, picking rose petals off his cheek as he tried to remember exactly where he was and why he'd picked that fight with the steam roller. The light was coming filtered through her curtains, and he could hear soft breathing from the warm body next to him.

Damn, he thought as he struggled to blink himself awake. He knew she'd be good, but he didn't think she'd be…well, concussive. His body ached, and he could barely feel his extremities. It took him a minute to realize that he was sleeping with his head at the foot of the bed. He blinked his eyes, focusing on the picture that hung behind the headboard. It was wildly off-balance, tilting to one side as if it had been knocked off its hooks during the night. His pillow was nowhere to be found, and his clothes were probably somewhere off where the pillows had disappeared to.

"Geeze," he moaned, reaching up to hold his head. "What was in that champagne, Spanky?" He rolled over, wrapping his body around hers, annoyed with the cluster of sheets that bunched between him and the object of his lust. "I can't remember a thing."

"Oh, it was perfect!"

He cried out in shock as Alice rolled over, draped in a negligee exactly like the one Tracy had worn—only several sizes larger. Her voluptuous figure practically spilled over onto the sheets, overwhelming in the sheer abundance of it. "Alice!"

"Ooh, I love it when you scream out my name, SpankDaddy!"

The words were barely out of her mouth when a flash nearly blinded him. He turned to see Tracy, back in the loose-fitting pants and ten miles of jacket look, standing over them with a digital camera and a huge grin on her face. "Now _here's_ one for the Christmas Card! 'SpankDaddy and the Help!' Just sorta _oozes_ holiday cheer, now doesn't it?"

"Spanky, you set me up!" He pulled the sheets around him, rolling slightly as his sheets became entangled with Alice's, and they both tumbled together towards the center of the bed.

"Oh, this just gets better and better," Tracy laughed.

Luke finally found his balance and, wrapping the sheet around him, disengaged himself both from the bed and the housekeeper. "Low blow, Wife," he said.

"Serves you right, Husband," she countered, a tinge of venom in her melodious voice. Her eyes flashed as she followed him towards the door. "I _could_ divorce you for infidelity." She waved the camera knowingly. "Proof's right here, Mister."

"Where are my damned clothes?" He muttered, his head still pounding.

"But I'm going to make you pay, just like you made me pay. I'm going to make you live with your actions. And that's revenge enough for me."

"Where are my damned clothes, Wife?" he bellowed, turning so abruptly that she almost ran into him. Any remnants of the heat they'd shared the night before seemed a million miles way, and right now all he wanted to do was wring her pretty neck.

"_I burned them_," she said, pointing toward the door. "Now get out of my room, and don't you ever _dare_ try to blackmail me into having sex with you again."

Luke glared at her for a long moment, then left without another word.

Tracy let out the breath that she'd been holding, then turned to Alice, who was seated at the edge of the bed with a sober expression on her round face. "I don't even know how to work one of these damned things," she said, indicating the digital camera.

"All that matters is that he believes there are pictures, Miss Tracy," Alice said. She smiled sadly, shrugging. "He didn't give you much of a choice."

"I hate this." Tracy crossed the room, sitting next to Alice on the bed. "I just…_hate_ this." She dropped the camera on the bed between them and rested her head in her hands, wiping her eyes hard with her fingertips. "He pushes me. I push back. It's exhausting."

"You couldn't sleep with him under those conditions, any more than he could have slept with you when you pushed him." She reached out, taking Tracy's slender hand her own thick one. "At least you had the decency to set him up with someone who _wasn't_ actually going to have sex with him."

"Oh, about that," Tracy said, sniffing slightly. "Are you sure your girlfriend is okay with all this?"

Alice laughed, squeezing Tracy's hand gently. "Tina thinks it's hilarious. She hates the way Mr. Luke has been jerking you around for the last year. And she doesn't mind the extra grand you're sending our way."

"It's your anniversary," Tracy whispered sadly. "Everybody should have a good anniversary." Tracy patted her friend's hand and stood to leave.

"You want me to clean up this mess, Miss Tracy?" The look on Tracy's face was classic Quartermaine. "Uh, I'll take that as a yes. Look, Miss Tracy," Alice added sincerely. "You and me, we got a good thing going here. You keep my secret, and I keep your secrets. Right?"

Tracy nodded.

"Then let me give you a little secret to ponder. Mr. Luke is going to come around. I know it." She grinned broadly, a huge expanse of teeth against her round face. "Tina did a tarot spread on it, and I consulted the I Ching. You two? You're like fire and oil, but sooner or later, you're going to ignite."

Tracy laughed. "Let me guess? In addition to being a housekeeper, a professional mud wrestler, a certified mechanic and a fabulous disco dancer, you're also a psychic?"

"I can see the future. You and Mr. Luke _will_ come together. It's just a matter of time. You're meant for each other."

Tracy sighed and turned for the door. After a moment's hesitation, she looked back, saying, "You're wrong. We're not meant for each other." She smiled gently at Alice's pained expression. "Don't worry about it, Alice," she said as she headed out the door. "It's not like it was ever a real marriage."

It was late when she finally returned to her room. Alice had done her job—there wasn't a trace of the boudoir décor she'd conjured for her little prank on Luke. Tracy looked around, a little sad to be back to her normal life.

She sat on the bed, not really wanting to make the effort to get undressed and shower. She felt tired, more exhausted than she'd felt in ages. Just a quick nap, she thought as she lay down on the bed. Just a quick nap, then I'll take my shower.

There was something hard and bulky under her pillow, and she rolled over, pulling the pillow back to reveal a long, slender velvet box. The kind jewelry came in.

There was a card next to the box with her name on it. Tracy picked it up with trembling fingers, pulling the card out of the envelope. On the outside, it just said "I'm sorry," in silver script on white cardstock. Inside, there was a hand-written note.

_Spanky,_

_Next time, no threats, no mickeys, no pinch hitters, no cameras… Next time, let's let it just be us._

_LS_

She closed the card, her lips pressing together in an unbidden smile, her eyes lowering slightly as she fought the feeling of warmth that threatened to overtake her. She opened the box. It was beautiful—a silver necklace with a single emerald drop. She imagined him, standing behind her, tall and warm and charming, fastening it around her neck with practiced fingers. She imagined the kiss that followed, and for the first time, Tracy Quartermaine didn't begrudge herself just a small indulgence. It wasn't so horrible just to pretend he cared, was it?

"Nice work, SpankDaddy," she whispered to the card, then tucked both the card and the jewelry box into the drawer of her nightstand. "Nice work."

The End


End file.
